the nights we won't remember
by quorra laraex
Summary: with the people we'll never forget. — Lucas/Maya, and a not-so-innocent trip to Vegas with their friends. AU
1. sin city

**_a/n: **this is just supposed to be some pure fun. a friendship fic among the gang and a bunch of the characters that have been introduced in several episodes. pretty much all lucaya though.

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><p><strong>the nights we won't remember<strong>  
><strong>with the people we'll never forget<strong>

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><p>.<p>

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**_i. sin city_**

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Beams of sunlight pour through the gap of the embroidered curtains of the Venetian, exposing a ray of white warmth along what had been exposed of her legs beneath thin, satiny blankets. The entirety of the hotel room is quiet except for the hum of the air conditioner to her left. The thin blanket huddled around her figure and the soft pillow pressed against the side of her face where she had most likely been drooling should have been enough for her to doze back into her dream state for another hour or so, but the inescapable pounding had foiled all previous restlessness, assassinating any sleep she'd longed for.

She groans into the gloriously stuffed pillow, regretting every single time she'd been talked into (by herself; the devil's advocate she'd always been) in taking _just one more_ drink. She's a tad surprised she hadn't died of alcohol poisoning with the—what, seventeen? Twenty? She had lost count after fifteen—shots she'd taken. _Ridiculous. Way to outdo yourself, Hart_. A second groan comes out muffled.

After a few minutes of incoherent grumbling into the cushion, she realizes an uncomfortable chill along the arch of her back. Gulping whatever saliva is left in her desert dry mouth, she wonders of last night's shenanigans, suddenly embarrassed and ashamed. She _never _slept nude. The blonde sits up instantly, trying her best to ignore the vicious throbbing in her temples that's heralding a hangover she really hadn't wished for. In a pointless attempt to search for her phone, any sign of familiarity, or the occurrences after having a swim with her best friend in the late afternoon just yesterday, she's automatically thrown back into annoying spinning dizziness. She crawls out of bed after wrapping herself in one of the sheets, making her way to what she assumed to be the bathroom. Somewhere along the way, she wonders of her whereabouts.

This most certainly was not the suite in the Mirage she and her friends have booked. Fuck. Speaking of her friends, they were surely going to be more than annoyed with her, checking the time on the wall. 11:48 a.m. She was supposed to meet them at ten that morning in their designated hotel (_ahem_—the Mirage) for breakfast. Whoops.

In the bathroom, she doesn't bother taking a glimpse of her appearance along the large mirror, instead throwing her head into the sink to rinse the remainder of smudged cosmetics. It's amazing how even when her face is as clean as Mrs. Matthews vicinity before Christmas parties, she's still able to look like complete shit. Maybe it's the ridiculous mess of half curls-half waves or the bags that have settled themselves below her eyes or maybe it's the… line of _bruises_ along her neck?! _Had she_—

Her attention is instantaneously arrested when she hears an accompanying grunt from the bed.

Fuck.

_If that's not Riles… I may or may not jump off the roof of this hotel_.

She peaks out of the bathroom, fingers coiled around the door frame, and studies the shifting body buried in the bed. Anxiety driven while feeling a pearl trickle from her forehead, she only notices the metallic band after it had slid against her skin in an attempt to wipe at her cold sweat. The diamond scratches her, and before she could react to any sort of discomfort, the blonde pushes her arm out in front of her to examine her hand and the ring (that looks far too expensive—_that could be college tuition_!) that glittered silver within its golden specks. It's a beautiful thing, really; must have actually cost a fortune. She wonders if she'd stolen it, freezing at the horrors of the repercussions that would follow if she were to be caught. Which of her friends actually wore jewelry? Riley… not so much. Isadora? Nope. Farkle? Nope. Nobody she could think of would have lent her such a gorgeous piece to wear. Maybe some street vendor giving out knockoffs for cheap? Or… maybe this guy was married. _No_. He couldn't be. _Maya Hart, you _whore_, you _slept _with a married man_?!

Her exhausted blue eyes glaze over the intricate details of the ring for a few seconds more before her focus fixates on the tanned, muscled arm that flies out of the remains of bed covers and threatens to suffocate her with the view of it.

—She _had_.

She wracks her brain in desperation, trying to figure out _who_ and _when _and _how_ and _why_. Absolutely _nothing_ comes to mind. She even has no recollection of the sex, which seemed enjoyable enough with how her clothes had been strewn across varied parts of the bedroom.

_What am I supposed to do now_?

Surely enough she could just leave, walk out in her previous attire (she'd already spotted that skimpy black bodycon she'd squeezed in thrown atop the drawers) and never, ever, know the face of the person she'd slept with ("that one night in Vegas", she would say and sigh) or she could wash up and then leave, saving herself from feeling more like garbage than this hangover could ever torment her, but that also meant the possibility of him awakening during her raging heat shower. And who knows if he's the type to invite himself into the glass stall with her. Oh, _god_.

And it's as if luck had never really been on her side this entire trip, because now that man (if he's a decade older than her, with the exception of Leonardo Dicaprio or Johnny Depp, shoot her) in that bed is yawning while stretching out his broad limbs. As soon as a mere centimeter of his brown hair is visible, the sharp inhale of breath lodged in Maya's throat has the power to choke her. (Shoot her _now_.) His face emerges from the cocoon of covers she'd recently vacated and her stomach drops. She might faint.

Lucas Friar.

She'll be surprised if she's not dead by noon.

"Ugh," he mutters, rubbing his eyes sleepily as he shakes his ruffled, boyish hair. She watches the blanket expose his chest when he sits upward, revealing the clots of purple blue identical to hers (except maybe more, but if she acknowledges this small, crucial fact, she will actually drop dead and he'd be forced to find her naked body sprawled on the bathroom floor, lifeless. She thinks that even _that_ scenario would be less horrific than this.) Her face turns this inevitable shade of scarlet, regardless. Those dark marks that paint his beach-boy skin are all so obviously her.

And then, as if life couldn't get any worse, he glances down at the glimmering ring on his ring finger.

Of his left hand.

He's dancing in confusion, frustration, and everything a hangover brings. The Hart watches his eyebrows furrow, followed by widening eyes, and by this point in time , she'd been gripping onto the door for support to hold her upright.

His eyes snap to hers from the creak of the bathroom entrance, standing with a face just as shocked as his. His glaze slowly slides down her body, observing her sloppily concealed skin in a wrinkled bed sheet, to the absurdly shiny ring on her finger, before coming back to her large blue eyes.

Vegas, matching rings, hangover, erased memory, sex.

And now, did she fully understand the term Sin City.

As much as she'd liked to claim she could in all their high school years to infuriate him, (and she certainly played it off well enough) Maya isn't too great in reading Lucas's mind. However, there is no mistaking the striking horror that drowned within him.

He opens his mouth with a hot breath and steals the word straight out of her bitten lips.

"Shit."

What _happened_ last night?

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**tbc.**

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><p><strong>_an:** i hope you'll enjoy this! and if you do or if you don't, feedback is always appreciated. thank you c:


	2. hearts on flight

**_a/n: **this is more on the long side for a chapter. couldn't contain myself, i was overjoyed with the reviews! Thank youu so much :) hope you enjoy.

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><p>.<p>

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_**ii. hearts on flight**_

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**A Week Before**

"So…" the boy muses, grin large and eyes twinkling beneath sunset skies as he absently stares at the hood of the red pickup. "You in?"

A head of messy brown locks pop out underneath the hood of his car, wiping grease off his calloused hands with a towel in the midst of clarifying, "Vegas?"

"_Vegas_," the Minkus boy intercedes, clasping his hands together with a devilish twinkle in his blue irises. He's ready. He's _so_ ready.

However, Lucas is more on the unsure side than anything. Doubt paints his face, the slant of his lips fully exposing his concern for the trip. "Look, man, I don't know."

His best friend's gaze flickers to his in attempt to throw him a look of disbelief, "But it's Vegas."

"It's across the country," the older one interjects. "And I'm not down to get shitfaced every night in a city I don't know well."

"I _am_!"

Lucas rolls his eyes during his walk to the garage cooler, where he pulls out two Coronas and throws a bottle over to the over-excited now twenty-one year old. The baby of the group, ready for all of them to get completely trashed. Despite his tie between sulking and being hyped, he catches the beer with ease, his coordination noticeably sharp. The taller boy smirks, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh, come _on_," Farkle prods as the boy drinks. Lucas always needed prodding when it came to taking risks. This was okay though, since Farkle had always been a pusher with his determination and unwavering position during certain situations—Vegas included.

He waves him off, sitting on a pull out chair beside his car, trying his best to ignore the sounds of the other brunette's incessant attempts at persuasion.

"We're all legal!"

"Your point?"

"We can _legally_ get smashed!"

"Farkle, we can do that here," the Friar points out. "Local bar down the block of Maya's old place. Or if you're feeling spontaneous, we could hit Manhattan."

Lucas doesn't catch his slip up, lighting a bulb in that big head of hair that had encaged Farkle's stimulating brain. "_Speaking_ of Maya, she's coming."

He hesitates, cursing himself when he catches himself doing so. He tries his best to cover it up, "Is that supposed to interest me?"

But Farkle's known him since the seventh grade—that accumulated to eight years, two months, and seven hours of laughing, fighting, nights of rebellion, studying, pranking, and growing up. Point being: he can see right through the poor sap. "Oh, quit it. You're head over heels, my friend. No need to hide it from me. It's _me_. _And_ you're obvious."

"No way I'd ever see her like that," Lucas mutters while shaking his head. Mocking he adds, "_And_ you're irritating."

"_Ooooo_kay," Farkle drawls. "You sure about that?"

"Positive," he replies a little too quickly and just a tad sourly. _Maya Hart_? Absurd.

"Your denial is a little too revealing."

"I'm _not _in denial," Lucas snaps. Farkle rolls his eyes.

Dropping the condescending tone of his voice, he continues less menacingly and proceeds with a false tone of innocence that Lucas deems even _more_ asshole-ish. "Alright, well, if you say so. Just picture it: a girl as cute as Maya hitting up the bars on the Strip, dressed all… you know. You don't even let her walk home from work when she lives less than a block away from the diner, always offering her rides and whatnot. How're you gonna let her get on a plane without you?"

His brows furrow in response, obviously annoyed at Farkle's desperate attempt to lure him on this unnecessary entourage voyage to Nevada now that Summer has peaked. "Whatever Maya does is her business." Lucas says her name with such salaciousness that he, in turn, rolls his eyes as he gets up and heads inside preparing himself for the onslaught, Farkle following right behind him.

"Stop kidding yourself, you know you're not going to let her go to the big bad city without you," he pointedly states. "Sure she lives in New York, but do I really need to spell out Sin City for you?"

Lucas, suddenly caught off guard, scowls on his way to the bathroom to rinse off.

"Your inability to admit these long-lasting feelings of yours for her is adorable and all, but we both know how much it bothers you when a boy throws her a compliment in her watermelon picking in the_ supermarket_."

His eyes narrow angrily, merely shooting Farkle a dirty look as he scrubs between his fingers in the bathroom sink. His white V-neck is smeared with oil and grease, his hair is tousled, and he, overall disheveled from working on his car on this balmy Sunday afternoon. And Farkle, persistent as always, shows no sign of leaving him alone. His day of peace has been shot to hell.

"Just go," Farkle whines. "We need this vacation, it's about to be our last year of college. We can gamble and party and drink and just come, will you?"

Giving up, Lucas heaves a heavy breath, his sigh an apparent sign of surrender. He loved Farkle, but man, did he really need days to himself. "Will it get you out of my house?"

"Sure will," Farkle singsongs victoriously, all smiles and confidence. "Billy will text you the costs and all of the details. Flight's this Wednesday at nine a.m. Six hours."

As he makes his way toward the exit, Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose in complete exasperation. He's surely going to regret this.

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The John F. Kennedy International Airport is crowded, as per usual. The floor is filled with moving passerby with multicoloured suitcases, hectic, even in the (not totally, but in a college student's perspective) early hours of the morning. The sun's hiding behind gray clouds painting the pale blue expanse of the sky overhead the glass ceiling, and Lucas yawns while pulling his luggage along the smooth floors. He hadn't been here since he'd moved from Texas in the middle of Junior High.

"Glad you're coming, man," Billy Ross replies as he checks the time on his phone. "'Boutta be one hell of a trip."

Lucas releases something between a grimace and a scowl, mumbling something unintelligible. It had something to do with having no choice, but Billy doesn't try to clarify. Instead, beside Farkle, they head over toward Terminal C, where they'd been told to meet the girls.

Lucas tells himself he's only here because Farkle had aggravated him enough to no end. It surely has nothing to do with the presence of a certain young woman with ridiculously blue eyes and a ridiculously magnetic personality.

Sure, Maya's his friend. A real close one, too, with all that time spent together throughout high school since they'd always been given the same six out of the seven classes they had each year. They were practically forced into each other's presence. Not that either of them minded. (Maya would claim to, but it was all for kicks.)

But beside that, he does care for her. Tremendously. Since his transfer over to the east side. And that's where he would draw the line—because there is _no way_ Lucas is even _remotely_ romantically interested in Maya Hart, the law school knockout. (It's pretty amusing, seeing her invested in doing her work because she likes her major. She gets to fight people with not only her wit and intellect, but with all her underground knowledge. From all those years in high school dying over futures and whatnot—she's finally found her calling and boy does she _excel_.)

Well, he could freely admit that she's attractive, with her soft long hair and eyes that had the power to drown, to suffocate. She's intelligent, too, finishing her four-year prelaw program in three years with the work she put in. Sometimes he thinks about the parents she'd left behind, knowing how proud they'd be with how she'd surpassed them. Then he'll remember it's not in his right to think of them, and quickly shoves the thought away, never letting the words make it to his lips. Anyway, she's funny, he'll give her that. Sweet. (Only sometimes.) Charming. (Very.) Adventurous. (Yes.) He remembers her ability in persuading him to pick her up from her apartment so she wouldn't need to go grocery shopping by herself past midnight in their early college years. _I need someone to push the cart_, she had said, and proceeded in offering to share the ice cream she had been planning to buy.

(He gave in.)

But that most certainly does not mean he's interested in her.

And even if he had been, he rationalizes, it is his own business.

(And maybe Maya's, if the time ever came.)

He sighs yet again, annoyed at his train of thought, deciding to derail it. Farkle's chatting animatedly with their fellow high school athletic star, debating on what to do first when they land. Lucas chooses not to listen and immediately cuts in with the mention of a familiar name.

"Josh?"

"Yeah," Farkle nods in front of him. "We're meeting him at the terminal soon."

"You never told me he was coming," Lucas remembers the Matthews. (Specifically, how the blonde girl had ogled him and always _always _made a big deal about him when she'd been a teenager.)

The Texan decides it'd been a good decision to come with the updated knowledge. He trails behind them, skeptic of the plans ahead of them in the many hours (and days) to come.

"There you guys are!" a female voice coos. Riley continues with anxiety in her tone, "We almost thought you guys were bailing."

And there, behind her—

"'Sup, boys."

Maya Hart.

Both girls, quite the lookers, are looking as pretty as ever. The Matthews, always fashion-crazed, is dressed more ostentatiously, in a viridian summer dress and light yellow strappy heels. The makeup on her face doesn't give her much of a natural look, but it's not as flashy as the women they knew they were about to be exposed to after their flight. Less colorful, however, Maya, is dressed in laid back attire with her high-rise jeans and cropped white T. Her hair's tied in a messy ponytail, resting on her left shoulder while a strap of her black backpack rests on her right, dark boots to match her dark shades perched atop her head.

Lucas swallows hard. Of course she couldn't be allowed to wander the Vegas streets alone, since she holds that dangerous combination of cool and pretty so goddamn well. He could just imagine the attention she'd easily attract with her long, blonde hair and dazzling smile.

Vacation? More like a bodyguard mission.

"Glad your coming," she interrupts the pinnacle of reflective thoughts as Riley engages in a conversation with the two others about her uncle. Lucas ignores the way his stomach flips. She adds, "You still seem reluctant."

"Vegas doesn't really seem like my kind of heaven."

"Oh, really?" Maya's smile morphs into a coy little smirk, eyes narrowing coquettishly. "Then what changed your mind? The scores of those Vegas whores?"

He plays right back. "Contrary to your belief, Maya Hart, I'm not that degrading of a man."

"Oh right, right; because you're a _boy_," she laughs, having the last word, her attempts at irritation unknowingly fruitless.

That's the thing about Maya. They could go on for hours on end, their banters, with her words always drowning in satire or something sharp enough to cut: cunning, but never elitist, while at the same time bearing a witchy temper that flares at the most obnoxious of times; flirty and coy, all while being a tid-bid intimidating, yet genuine. And frustratingly gorgeous on top of it all.

How could a girl like that ever push his buttons?

She could annoy him a little. But that's it, really. He likes her company despite it.

And Lucas knows the implications of all of this. He's not stupid. But he can continue to delude himself into thinking he is—simply because of this: nothing good can come from liking Maya Hart publicly. Nothing good can come from adding his name scrawled onto her growing list of admirers and increasing the chance of humiliating himself.

So he keeps it all to himself, and hopes this unasked for attachment to her had just been a phase.

(Just a simple seven year phase.)

Josh Matthews strolls to their group naturally in his leather jacket and aviators, easily striking up a talk with Riley before finally greeting the rest of them. Lucas watches as Maya wraps her arms around him in an embrace that irks him to shreds, but he does nothing but ignore the sight as well as Farkle on the side raising his eyebrows at him.

This trip's already making him nauseous and they hadn't even left New York yet.

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Lucas hated planes.

Riding them had always been a bad experience—of course, he can only speak for the one time he'd ever ridden one when he had been thirteen. And maybe some sort of bias had been wrapped around his perspective during that flight because of how disappointed he'd been in leaving his home and dreading the six hours coming to the big city. But whatever.

He still doesn't like them. They're notoriously cramped, full of loud-mouthed, rude people who could not keep their bodily functions private. There's always that one kid screaming, and if not screaming, crying because his ears wouldn't pop. There's also always some poor soul locked away in the (even more cramped) restroom, vomiting into that tiny toilet, or if he couldn't reach the restroom, then into the bag of his or her vicinity. And specifically, there's _always_ a person beside him trying to make a conversation when all he wants is to sleep.

And this person, specifically, today, happens to be the very Maya Hart.

The Maya Hart who loves planes.

"I love flying," she says with ease. "There's such a nice calmness to it. Especially when we're surrounded by clouds. Doesn't it make you just forget about everything for awhile?"

"Eh," he replies meekly.

"What, is wittle Lucas a wittle afwaid of heights?" she teases, watching his eyes narrow in playful annoyance. Smiling, she lets off, plugging in her earphones into her iPod and getting comfortable with the pillow she had brought.

Before both earphones were secure into her ears, a third voice abruptly cuts through the air in front of them, coming from the seat before theirs. "Hey, Beautiful."

Lucas' eyes is quick to snap up to the guy sitting in front of him, who'd been turned around and is staring unabashedly at the girl beside him. Primal instincts within him ignite, as they often do around Maya, for reasons he chooses not to examine.

"Hi," she replies in nonchalance, sounding completely uninterested.

The boy has a devious smirk and gelled hair and Lucas deems he might as well have _douchebag_ tattooed on his forehead. "You ever think about joining the Mile High Club, princess?"

Lucas can't help but half rise from his seat at the incredulous question. Did this guy really think he could get away with that kind of bullshit? He'd be sorely mistaken, with how Lucas is about ready to fist his hands into the asshole's shirt. He's stopped when the Hart pipes up.

"You're a pig," she comments with a smile, pupils like a dart destined for bullseye on the stranger's. "Do you think I'm supposed to swoon? Be impressed? Go into the restroom with you and get frisky? Oh, _please_. Give me a break. You asking me, a complete stranger on a plane, for sex, is pathetic. Are you not getting laid back home? How _old _are you again? You look about…twenty-six. And you're not getting any? Want to know why? Because you're a _joke_. I think you might want to re-evaluate your life."

And with a stab at his pride, his life, his everything, the shock in the stranger's face is enough for him to silently turn away, and makes Lucas think twice over whether or not she really needed a bodyguard type figure around her. Most definitely doesn't seem like it. The girl can definitely stand for herself, capable of bruising a man's ego for dear life, jabbing at every inch of his confidence with every look in the mirror.

"_Ouch_," Lucas mouths over to her, and she smiles winningly before resting her blonde head onto her pillow in hopes for a long nap.

Lucas is in for a long ride, and he isn't just thinking of the plane.

At least Josh is seated nowhere near them.

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**tbc.**

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><p><strong>_an:** tell me what you wanna see? what you're excited for? anything? reviewers are my motivators. i actually really adore you guys


	3. it's official, we're idiots

**_a/n:** what's funny is that it's christmas (merry xmas to you guys!) and i'm in las vegas and my family is down in the casino gambling and i'm here writing this chapter. ha. sorry if there are errors, i'm too tired to read through this

**ALSO **i received a review mentioning: "The only thing that sort of threw me off is that there's not really any mention of Riley's old (or even current) feelings for Lucas" which I replied to on my shared lucaya blog, but will repeat here on this update.

I don't think a crush in the seventh grade is important enough to be mentioned in a fic where every character is around twenty-one years old. In the show, Riley's about 12/13 and she has a crush on Lucas. This is much different than it being Riley being around seventeen and her first love is Lucas. (Now that! Is something important/significant enough to address bc it would have shaped her dramatically and should not be ignored to her characterization, even in a fic) but since it is not like that, and is much simpler, innocent, naive, and prepubescent, I don't think her feelings are important enough to be addressed.

-heads up for profanity and post-sex awkwardness

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><p>.<p>

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_**iii. it's official, we're idiots**_

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**Now**

He can't help but stare.

In disbelief, in bewilderness, in embarrassment.

He has completely fucked himself over, deciding that this situation beats every story in the book. (except it's fairly cliché, really—she would point out if he had stated aloud)

And just as if she'd been reading his mind, she goes:

"This kind of shit is for the movies."

Maya, unlike he, who is still firmly planted on the bed, is roaming frantically around the room in search for anything familiar whilst tightly gripping the edges of the sheet around her. Lucas tries not to notice how it hugs her frame a little too tightly, blushing ferociously at his constant wave of thoughts.

He _slept_ with her.

And he couldn't remember _any_ of it.

And then once again, to herself, mirroring his exact thoughts:

"Damned it all."

His seafoam gaze flickers back to her as she runs her hand through a wild mess that had fallen in tangles down her back. She groans aloud, aware that she looks a mixture of flushed and demented—all bruised and bitten and skin devoured by the very boy who had been capable of encaging butterflies beneath her ribs for years. He doesn't reply and she figures it's just too much to take in. She deems it slightly funny how Mr. Responsible-Drinking-And-Always-Has-A-Plan-B is at a loss for words.

"I'm totally trashed," she says calmly before stocking back toward the bathroom. "I'm showering."

There's a silence louder than fireworks before he is capable of speaking.

"How are you so collected right now?"

_Here we go_, she thinks.

"You _do_ realize that we're across the country from home, our friends are nowhere to be seen, we don't have our phones—," his voice becomes louder with every phrase. "Are our wallets even here? Do we even have _money_?"

The blonde rolls her eyes at the face of the bathroom entrance before twirling around.

"And not to mention, we're fucking _married_," the young man exclaims, hitting the headboard with an outstretched arm. More quietly, he mumbles under a heavy breath, "I _knew_ I was going to regret this trip."

She (kind of) has this urge to slap him, but resists. Instead, she raises her voice and glares hovering over him from the bedside with a menacing, impatient gaze. "Quit overreacting."

"Quit with the emotionless façade," he spits in retaliation. He shifts his legs atop the bed and slides them toward the side to finally stretch the remainder of his limbs. At least he's in boxers. "Don't you care? This isn't a _game_."

" Of course I care!" her hand is a second away from clapping against the side of his face. This changes once he storms toward the dresser, breezing past her while looking for any clue, hint, evidence of this painful reality. She watches him shuffle through the table top, grabbing his jeans along the way. "Are you seriously getting mad at me for remaining calm?"

The brunette hesitates, readjusting his belt before a surrendering sigh. He looks back up at her, varying colours of the sea interlocking, flaring against one another as he soothes out the tone of his voice. "Alright, sorry," Lucas mutters flatly. "I'm more mad at myself than anything. This 'vacation' had disaster written all over it. Had enough faith to hope it wouldn't live up to that expectation. Yet of course, it _had_ and much more."

She can only shrug. Yes, they fucked up. Yes, this was going to take some time to sort out, fix, bring together. But she hadn't known fucking her and marrying her was going to be _that_ much of a nightmare to him. So she bites down on her tongue and tells herself that the sting of her teeth hurts much more than his words before abruptly turning on her heel for that desperately needed shower.

She drowns in the water and for a few seconds, she is lost of the cruel fate of the morning after.

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**Meanwhile**

She awakes with the left side of her cheek plastered onto the marble floors of some hotel's casino restroom stall. Her (too) high heels are still strapped onto her small, aching feet and her brown curls are sprawled everywhere around her head. At first, she is scared to sit up—to see where she is, to check the time, to be exposed to a pool of vomit that was most likely still in the toilet beside her. She is scared to relish in the events that had happened during the previous night, to reflect over all her stupid actions, to think about what comes next, what happens after—what happens _now_.

She wants to cry.

_Boy, would Daddy be proud_, she thinks in a somber type of sarcastic.

With the one shot of courage still left in her, ignited by the enthusiasm to rip those strappy six and a half inch heels off her ankles, she pushes herself off the floor. The Matthews rubs at her temples and dares not look into the toilet bowl. She also refuses to breathe in any sort of aroma that had been intoxicating her senses locked away in this peculiar, non-familiar "bedroom" of hers. She unclasps the straps and holds the pair in sore fingers along with her royal blue clutch, unlocking the stall and slowly making her way toward the horizontal mirror accompanied by bright lights along every sink.

She could have been dead with alcohol poisoning in that stall and yet nobody had done _or _said anything! Her legs had been sprawled into the outside for God's sake!

_How long was I even here for_?

Her eyes linger along her reflection, acknowledging the fact that she's at a tight tie between the aesthetics of the walking dead and a coke addict. She splashes water onto her face and tries her best to rid of the smeared, jaggedly-winged eyeliner and _goddammit_, is that lipstick on her nose?! Just as she raised her hand to wipe the red prints off the bridge of her nose, a line of ink on her arm becomes ridiculously apparent in the luminescence. Rotating slightly, she eyes the image of the tediously made dragon on the sleeve of her arm in complete horror.

_I got a tattoo. I have a fucking tattoo_.

She releases a pent up scream, only stopping when her throat hitches in thirst, dropping her belongings and her fingers grasping against the edges of the sink.

Eyes hard on her own, she begins her self-motivational pep talk, "Riley, you're better than this. Breathe. Breathe. Don't you dare cry. Crying won't do anybody good."

She grabs her clutch and rummages through the small compartments, fingering through cosmetics and receipts, in need of the valuables.

"See, you have your phone, your wallet, ID…" she calms down, comforting herself before feeling something she doesn't recognize by the touch. The edges are almost crisp enough to cut, and when she pulls the wad out, her eyes widen to almost half the size of her face. There, in between her forefinger and thumb, securely wrapped in a band, "…and _hundreds_ of dollars?"

_Holy shit, I robbed a fucking bank. No way. No, wait—that's impossible… Maybe a store? A person?! Jesus Christ, what the fuck did I _do_ yesterday?_ Something clicks. _Did I _strip_? Did I… sell my body?!_

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"So," there's an amused tang to the sound of her voice. "Any leads?"

Maya brings about a fresh scent of French lavender and honey as she steps out of the bathroom clothed in a white robe and a towel wrapped around her head. He whips out a certificate he had found along the platform of the grand window and places it in her cleansed hands. In scrawled gold, cursive print was the name of an area that rang no specific bells, but did ignite a spark of embarrassment.

"Chapelle D'Amour?" she snorts, and he is instantly reminded of how charming her humor always is, even in the midst of situations like so. It eased him. "Man, aren't we lame."

"Right," he agrees with a light smile. "I guess this is our start."

He hands her a mug of freshly brewed coffee, noticing her wild blush when their fingers graze past one another's. _We can't even touch hands without burning red_.

And then there's another realization: things will probably never, ever be the same.

.

.

.

Her first instinct is to rid of it. Throw it away, burn it, plant it on someone else—anything but keep it anywhere near her. This collection of bills had maybe around fifty neat, crisp, hundreds and the amount of oxygen lodged is so, so close to making her faint. This is the last thing Riley needs. Having this kind of cash on her was going to ruin her. She was going to get arrested and she wouldn't be able to get her aspiring degree and a job and her own house that she'd been excited to paint all on her own since she was nine. She'd be living off minimum wage if she'd be living at all. On the streets. (because no fucking complex in New York would be affordable off the lowest salary and she could _not_ tell her parents about this.)

She stares at the cash, which she had flicked away from her and had landed on the mahogany counter. She deems that if the money had eyes of its own, it'd be staring right back at her, giving her the same intense look that was impossible to alleviate.

And just as if she'd been her sixteen year old self at her first high school party, Maya's at her side, her voice breezing past her shoulder and into her left ear where her reeking peer pressure continues to push her to take her first shot of rum. Except, this time, the voice that's imbedded into her conscience runs through everything the sinful five thousand could bring her—besides jail time, that is.

Shoes, jewelry, clothes, college tuition, _shoes_…

How tempting.

Well, then again, she doesn't know for _sure_ if this money was made illegally. For all anyone knows, she could have earned this stack in a game of black jack. Right?

With another few minutes of crossed arms and silent foot tapping between every urge to grasp the money, Riley Matthews ends up stuffing it into the abyss of her purse before grabbing her stilettos and trailing toward the restroom exit, strutting barefoot with her obvious walk of shame, cell phone in hand ready to find out where the hell everyone is and all the shenanigans they've gotten themselves into.

She starts with Farkle Minkus.

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**tbc.**


	4. ride or die

**_a/n:** annoyed/jealous/heated/bitter lucas is hot and fun 2 write  
>aaaaaAaand happy new year!<p>

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><p>.<p>

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_**iv. ride or die**_

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**Three Days Ago**

"I'm stoked!" Maya squeaks with twinkling eyes of delight, mirroring her best friend's enthusiasm to party in the infamous city. "I've never been here before; I've dreamed of it, though—the total getaway."

She can't help but keep her shining blue eyes glued to every space the lobby had to offer, heels clicking against the clean-enough-to-see-your-reflection-floors. Lucas, busy shouldering both her luggage and Riley's, interjects coldly, "I'm not, and I haven't been here either."

Although this hotel _is_ pretty damned kickass.

_And_ Riley had been able to pull some strings with Josh and his folks; he'd talked them into donating some much-needed cash to some of her fellow poor college student friends (or so they'd explained) and they were able to book the tower suite—which is most definitely the _dream suite_, Farkle likes to call it.

During the group's absent chitchat over the gloriously detailed architecture, Josh makes his way over to them after checking in with a pamphlet pocketing multiple key cards. With a side smile that makes Maya's stomach flip at the sight he says, "Alright, a living room, a view, and two bedrooms. Who's rooming?"

Lucas most definitely does not miss the way the older Matthews' eyes flicker upward at his last question to meet the Hart's anticipated, flirtatious gaze. She laughs, her smile working as a catalyst to the way one of his eyes twitch. Ever since she had turned eighteen, the awkward tension of age gaps and the _you're-my-best-friend's-uncle_ ordeal separating the Hart from the Matthews that had been building up with their ongoing and growing chemistry had _vanished_—to the Friar's total dismay.

Their indirect flirting was now _endless_.

(Had to do with something along the lines of innocent childhood crushes that had bloomed with his consistent visitation hours from Philly to New York, and _dammit_, how was Lucas supposed to compete with that?)

Riley doesn't fail to miss the way the two are looking at each other either, _as well_ as Lucas' scowl, butting in with, "Oh, please. Keep giving her that smolder and you'll give Lucas a stroke."

And with that, Lucas makes a mental note to drown her in the hotel bathtub. Along with Farkle. Assholes. He begins to wonder when and how he had become so obviously repelled at the idea of another young man having his eyes set on the blonde—for Riley, the most oblivious of them all, to take notice of it. _Fuck_. He's going to need to talk to her about that. At least Maya hadn't heard with all her giggling at Josh's side commentary directed only toward her. He might gag.

She drawls more dramatically in order to capture everyone's attention, proclaiming, "Maya and I will be rooming together. You guys can sort out who'll be in the living room and whatnot. Also keep in mind that Isadora is still meeting us up tomorrow. Anyways, let's get moving. We've got a limo ready whenever we are. Chop chop!"

The group wanders off toward the elevators then, with Lucas trudging behind before being hit with a sudden realization: Josh hasn't been on speaking terms with his parents (for years, according to Maya.) Why on earth would they lend him money for Vegas? This certainly did _not_ add up—and he assumes that the others had been too preoccupied in the given luxuries that they hadn't even taken the time to question how (as poor as they were) they were given this ridiculous extravaganza.

He quickly follows behind in order to catch up to the leading brunette in order to pull her arm and at least get an honest answer on the secret of their trip.

"Riley, we got the tower suite," Lucas eyes her suspiciously.

She nods, chin up, smile ear to ear, her pride at its peak.

"And a limo."

"Correct."

"You told me your grandparents pitched in a load for this trip," his brow raises in obvious suspicion and Riley releases a nervous laugh that she's had since being a goofy ten year old.

"Lucas, your skepticism is getting old," Farkle rolls his eyes, throwing an arm around the shoulders of his best friend. "Everything's paid for, we're here a week, with buds, babes, drinks, and _freedom_!"

The elevator toll chimes, announcing its arrival and the group follows inward, rolling their baggage. They're greeted by upbeat elevator music and mirrors along every wall. Josh pushes the button for the top floor, watching Lucas as he does so.

The Friar continues, eyes squinting and unamused. "This has _sketch_ written all over it. We have a goddamn _limo_. I want the truth."

In turn, Maya's interruption's inevitable with the way he's cornering Riley, plaguing her with an unprepared confrontation. The poor girl. With a smirk, an evil twist to her supple lips, she gives a sarcastic little curtsy. "Alright, alright. You're welcome, guys. It's all comped. Surprise!"

All the jaws drop besides the Hart and the two Matthews. Even Farkle—the seemingly most devious of them all is caught in shock.

"But why, Maya?" Billy asks while adjusting the strap of his backpack. It had fallen with his shoulder when she'd exposed the underlying truth beneath their voyage. "Did you offer some type of depraved sexual behavior in exchange for these sweet ass privileges?"

For as naïve as the Ross could be sometimes, Lucas privately has to wonder the same thing.

"No, you moron," her hands move to her hips. "_But_ when we booked this trip, I mentioned how me and my smoking hot friend, Riley, would be coming along. Hotels and casinos and shit love nothing more than barely-legal girls, especially girls that are _best friends_, so they'll offer'em all sorts of free shit to attract more people inside. Understood?"

"Understood…" Billy and Farkle say simultaneously, taking in the implications. Billy continues with a look of unease, "It's understood that you sent pictures of you and Riley to get a discounted suite and free assortments at a very expensive, _exclusive _hotel. Maya, this is immoral. It's degrading. It's probably _illegal_. And above all?"

Lucas smirks. This entire time he thought he was going to be the only voice of reason and rationale during this "vacation". But now he seems to have an ally. Someone who can also see the sheer engregiousness of two young, stupid girls vamping themselves into the world in exchange for Vegas luxuries. Someone who can help him keep those two young girls (except this really had _Maya_ written all over it) in line. Someone who can really _understand_ where he's coming from and…

"…it's fucking brilliant," Billy and Farkle conclude in unison, once again.

Lucas smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand. Fuck. It. All.

"Damn right!" Farkle exclaims, pumping his fist in the air and Josh's smirks last the entire ride up. "I'm surprised _I _didn't come up with that strategic, genius plan."

He truly is surrounded by idiots.

.

.

.

Lucas would never, ever, ever in a million years, admit to anyone that he liked the room.

But shit man, he loves it. And part of him has to begrudgingly thank Maya for her shameless self-promotion. Without her gutsy demeanor, they wouldn't have landed something like this.

There were two bedrooms besides a kitchenette and a living room that contained an entire window of a wall that had a marvelous view of the Strip. The only problem is that each bedroom had one bed, albeit king-sized, as well as a sofa—which Josh had called for himself. And he may not have a problem sharing half the bed with Billy, but he definitely has a problem sharing it with Farkle, who, to his misfortune, already claimed the left side of the mattress. After having to share a bed with his best friend during their senior trip in Disneyworld—never again could that happen.

(All kicks and drool and snores and ultimately having Lucas wake up at five a.m. on the floor with Farkle's dead limbs staking every area the cushion had had to offer. And well, you don't really want to know about the _other_ thing. It was _unspeakable_, but at least brought about a whole new level of bro…or something. They'd agreed to never speak of it.)

Never again.

So when Billy has the courtesy to offer the other half before settling his backpack along the right side, Lucas shakes his head before strolling out.

"Nah, man. It's all yours," and he marks his territory of the living room couch, which looks comfortable enough and happened to be spread before the clear expanse of the window and is very much open to the kitchen and a large television.

After arranging his luggage into the compartment in the closet, he's reminded of why he hadn't heard any nagging from any of the present feminine voices. They'd disappeared into their designated area—_their _marked territory of perfume and cosmetics and shoes galore lined away as the boundary that the boys could not trespass; and god help them if they _did_—all hell would break lose, that's for sure. They'd been getting ready for a free dinner in the bistro and Riley had mentioned they were to look nice.

How the hell does someone dress for dinner in Vegas, anyway? It isn't as if Lucas particularly cares for where they ate or how they looked doing it. But he's in no mood to hear anyone complain over how underdressed he is, so with a sigh, he grabs a white button-down shirt and a pair of dark jeans before stalking into the bathroom.

Okay, and yeah. The bathroom's pretty sweet, too. Not only does it have an enormous bathtub with an impressive array of complimentary soaps, shampoos, and conditioners along the rim, but a long rack of white towels beside a pristine-looking toilet and… Robes? Alright, Lucas isn't one for stealing, but there's no way he's not bringing one of those robes back with him to New York. There's even a small TV hooked up onto the wall beside the mirror and _wow_, he can seriously just chill in the bathroom when he doesn't want to deal with anybody's bull.

Since in the bathroom already, he's quick to notice how stiff his muscles had become during that excruciating plane ride. On a whim, he decides to take a shower and to his unspoken delight, the water's hot and the stream overhead is perfect and relaxing. Hot and fast.

Abruptly, and for no fucking good reason, an image of Maya Hart exploded forth in his head. He could picture her silhouette along the shower curtain, the bathroom steamy and barely enough to conceal what has to be a killer body; hot water running hard and fast all over her and…

_What the hell_ _is wrong with me_? He thinks, half in disgust and half in panic. This cannot be happening to him. It really couldn't. There isn't any time of the day where he's safe from these random, unpredictable mental cock-ups revolving around his ill-suppressed fantasies over his frustrating friend. Funny how she could be the source of frustration and the source of his stress relief at the same time. Real funny.

He adjusts the tap to make the water run cold, cooling any potential arousal before it could claim him any further. In order to distract himself, he rubs his scalp hard enough with the free shampoo. There are way too many trigger words, innocent in meaning and in usage, that somehow have the ability to still make him think of hot, steamy sex with her.

Like hot. And steamy. And sex. Hard. Fast. Wet. Tight.

He's losing his mind. And coming here, to Vegas, to a land where everyone's depraved, is surely not going to help the matter.

And the fact he'll be sleeping twenty feet away from his (desirable) frustration isn't going to help, either.

Furious with himself, he rinses the shampoo out of his brown locks and stomps out of the shower, resolving not to so much as speak to the very blonde at all that evening. He'll choke down his meal, hang around the casino to eye-assassinate any guy foolish enough to approach her (_fuck life if it's Josh_), have a beer with his boys (that did _not_ include Josh), and drag her untouched and unfucked body up to their room with him so they could get some sleep.

It's a good plan, he compliments himself, dressing quickly. A sound plan.

Afterward, he makes his way back to the living room where most of his friends are lounging around in decent attire. And then the girls come out, dressed, ready, and smelling of raspberries and Lucas lands his eyes upon Maya, who's in the shortest, tightest, reddest dress he'd ever seen.

She just had to make things hard.

_Goddamn_, that dress—clinging to her body like a second-skin (oh, another trigger word: _second skin_), sleeveless and framing a perfect chest. And if she bends down just a slight, it's all over for her. She'd even paired it with some come-fuck-me high heels that made her legs even more killer, miles long and smooth, her makeup dark, and hair down in her usual voluminous waves, greatly contrasting against her ponytail during their ride across the states.

Apparently he's not the only one who had taken notice to the girl's magnetically attractive appearance because out of nowhere (like usual—_eyeroll_) comes the older Matthews (Riley's _uncle_, for christ's sake) holding out an arm with her faux fur coat.

"Don't want you to be cold," Josh throws her a half smile when her eyelashes flutter in his direction. She smiles with her kitten eyes, taking her coat and covering herself in the warm apparel.

It's not as if Lucas _disliked_ Josh. In fact, they had been friends when they'd met during their younger years. They got along quite well when it came along to interests, differentiating hobbies, and when interacting with mutual friends. But with every flirty comment, coy smirk, wink given to the girl of his badly-suppressed fantasies, the tension of this one-sided resentment slowly raised.

Lucas scowls off to the side, hopefully to everyone's ignorance. But of course, isn't.

To further his disgruntlement, both Farkle and Riley (both who are on his drown list) have happened to place themselves on both sides of him and nudge their elbows into either sides of his ribs, apparently entertained by his annoyance.

As Josh leads the way with the rest following behind him in idle chatter, two arms prevent him from moving any further, derailing him from any movement with symmetrically raised eyebrows and voices ready to be heard.

"You gotta tell her how you feel, Lucas," Riley pointedly states while she styles the shawl around her grey bodycon two-piece dress.

Chiming in comes the other boy, nodding in agreement, "She's right. If you don't do it soon…don't come crying to us when you walk in on them one of these nights with her screaming '_Joooosh_!'"

Riley gags, slapping a palm against the Minkus' mouth, "Ugh, god. Please don't let Maya literally become my aunt."

"You guys are crazy," Lucas grumbles with a sour tone.

"And you, sir, are annoying," Riley says, her index finger poking at his chest. "Whether you face the truth on your own or with us, you better face it soon. One day, she's going to have kids, Lucas."

_Oh, here we go_, he thinks.

"And whether or not they are your kids…" Riley continues with puppy-dog eyes, Farkle nodding behind her. "It's up to you."

Unbelievable.

Is this conversation _really_ happening? Of course Farkle had surely planted the idea in Riley's head. And of course Riley would carry this idea out. Of course. Those two were definitely trouble, especially together.

And with that, the two prance behind, the Friar the last to leave the suite with mumbled words to himself, "She's really gonna be the death of me, isn't she."

"Yup," the brunette girl responds, acknowledging herself into his supposed-to-be monologue coming back into his peripheral. "But it's alright. Heaven or hell, she's gonna make you feel alive regardless."

"You sure about that?" Lucas asks, walking side by side with her toward the elevators, where the rest had already gone.

"Of course," Riley genuinely replies with a soft smile. "She's my best friend. She's my death, too. And you know what?"

He looks up from the floor after he'd jammed his hands into his pockets just to see the fiery passion in her light brown eyes. For a second, he's reminded of why he had liked her so much in junior high and completely understands how Farkle's always been completely head over heels in love with her.

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

And after a moment of pondering and coming into their friends' view to meet the electric gaze of the very genius-source-of-all-his-hidden-desires-pain-in-the-ass-girl running through his mind—

"Way to make us wait, Cowboy."

—he decides he wouldn't have it any other way, either, sighing with a resigned smile.

.

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**tbc.**

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><p><strong>_an:** yay riley/lucas friendship. yay hints at riley/farkle. yay bc i love writing these flashback scenes ha. (but ugh so much dialogue; i hate writing a lot of talking blegh)

i'm sorry if lucas seems kind of ooc? that's the last thing i wanted but hopefully you can deal ... i just liked writing him v bitter HAHA but yeah that wont last for long ;-)

also you know me. i can't really f(x) w/o reviews. leave some love? critique? anything works as a motivator. it's a demand and supply kind of thing folks


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